Page 29 of Worthy

Did he do all of this? This must be how she got the gash below her eye.

I take in the extent of the destruction, and when five minutes pass and Nelly still hasn’t come down, I decide to go look for her. Going upstairs in someone’s house, especially toward their bedroom, always feels oddly intimate. I don’t know why. She’s my best friend and seeing the place she sleeps at night shouldn’t feel so odd and forbidden.

At the top of the stairs, there’s a bathroom straight in front of me and a room on either side. The room to the left has the door open, and inside sits a desk. It’s clearly Nelly’s office. She’s an artist, and insanely talented. For as long as I’ve known her, she’s brought beauty to life on paper. She works with various brands on social media, creating marketing material for them. It’s been the perfect career for her since the military tends to keep you moving around.

Various framed pieces hang from the walls. An easel sits off to the left, and her desk is cluttered with materials. The entire room is an organized mess of beauty and talent that I’ve missed witnessing over the years. I admire her talent, always having been in awe of her.

Exiting her office, I cross the hall, pushing open the door to her bedroom that is left slightly ajar. Nelly’s scent surrounds me the moment I step inside—peaches, it’s a lotion she’s used since we were teenagers—but so does Anthony’s. My nose wrinkles at his masculine smell mixing with her sweet one. As I step inside, the sun pours in through the slits in the curtains, giving way to enough natural light. Their bed, king-size and a four post, is unmade and very slept in. The pastel blue comforter is shoved almost to the foot of the bed, pillows strewn about.

My eyes find the glow peeking out from a door left slightly open that I assume is the closet. She isn’t anywhere in the room, so she has to be in there. On quiet feet, I amble over, reaching for the handle and gently pulling it open. My gaze drops to the ground, where she’s sitting with her knees to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. My chest tightens seeing her like this.

Nelly peers up at me when she hears the door open. The bruising under and around her eye seems much more noticeable now. Maybe because she’s under the awful fluorescent lighting. My blood boils as I take in the bloodshot eye and how swollen the lid is. I want to fucking kill him with my bare hands.

Moisture pools in her eyes, the deep blue of them standing out even brighter against the glassiness. Her full bottom lip quivers when she sees me, and a strangled sob hiccups out of her. “I’m sorry,” she cries.

Kneeling beside her, my hand goes to her back, rubbing it softly. “Honey, sorry for what?”

“For being such a fucking mess.” She covers her face with her hands, shoulders shaking. “I disturbed your entire life, making you fly here in the middle of the night, and I’m a wreck. I never wanted you to see me like this, but I didn’t know who else to call!”

“Hey, hey…” Fully sitting down beside her, I wrap my arm around her shoulder, bringing her body into mine. Nelly’s head falls easily onto my chest. “You have nothing to be sorry about, you hear me? We are best friends, and that is what I’m here for.”

We sit there for a few minutes, and I let her get it all out. We don’t speak, but there’s nothing really to say. At least not yet. She’s overwhelmed and hurt, and probably even a little confused. We have at least three days’ worth of driving ahead of us where she can open up to me if she wants to. I’m not going to push it now.

In all the years we’ve known each other, she isn’t one to break down. She’s always been the more emotional one out of the two of us, but this? I’ve never seen her so utterly dejected, almost frail from the trauma.

After a while, her body trembles a little less and it seems like the crying has subsided.

“Do you want me to pack up anything for you?” I ask. “Or help you with anything?”

“Sure, thank you.” She sniffles, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her shirt before pulling back and meeting my gaze. The sadness in her eyes would knock me off my feet had I been standing.

The need to fix her, make her smile and laugh again, burns strongly in my gut. My best friend is feeling broken, and it’s my job to help her remember how fucking special she is.

And this road trip is the perfect opportunity.

Chapter Three

Penelope Boswell

I don’t know how I got here.

Not necessarily in a physical sense, but just as a whole. How did I find myself in a place where I needed rescuing? I’ve never been that girl. Sure, I’m quiet and a little shy, but I’ve never beenweak. I’ve always been able to stand up for myself and hold my own. So, when did that part of me dwindle away, only to be replaced by this pliant, fearful woman in her place?

The sun is shining, and we have the windows down in the car. It’s a nice, warm day—it feels too nice for how dreary and despondent I feel. The stereo in the rental car Wren got blares some Fletcher song through the speakers, and I can’t help but sneak a peek at my best friend as she drives. Her long, dark auburn hair has streaks of blonde underneath. It blows with the wind, whipping all around her perfectly angled face.

It should be illegal how stunning Wren is.

Her full, plump lips create the perfect natural pout that women everywhere pay hundreds of dollars to achieve in the form of filler. Her jaw is strong and square, a little dimple right in the center of her chin that can look silly on some, but on her, it’s elegant. And her eyes, that are hidden beneath her big, black Quay shades, are the prettiest hue of hazel I’ve ever seen. In the sunlight, they look like pools of melted honey.

She’s always been beautiful and confident, since the moment I met her. Wren has never questioned her looks, but she also isn’t conceited or full of herself. It’s how we became such good friends so fast as kids. She’s got the biggest heart, and her energy is pure, smile and laughter contagious.

Wren is everything I wish I could be as a woman.

We’re on the highway, flying down at over seventy miles an hour. There aren’t many cars out here with us, which is nice. It’s been a few hours since we left my house—my old house now, I guess—and I’m almost positive we’re still in Illinois, but we’re heading toward Missouri. I’ve never made this drive, so I’m not exactly sure which states we’ll hit, which ones we’ll stop at for a night in, and all that. When I moved here originally from California, we had all our stuff sent via professional movers the military hires. Anthony and I flew here, and every time I’ve been back to California since, it’s also been by plane.

The silence between us that is replaced by her playlist feels awkward, and I’m not sure why. Things between Wren and I are never felt that way. It’s possible it’s all in my head. I tend to do that—make up scenarios, blow things up bigger than they need to be, and assume the worst. It’s a flaw in me that’s only gotten worse as I’ve gotten older.

It seems most people get more sure of themselves the older they get. I wish it were like that for me.

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